Get Over Yourself
gracie’s muse · no. 002 · get over yourself
Greyhound bus from Myrtle Beach to Charleston, SC.
American Summer 2026 has been full of going into the belly of my own beast.
At the end of May, I moved out of my house where I had woken up to the sun rising on the Mediterranean Sea. I had a few choices for how to spend my summer, but I knew what was calling me forward.
My mother needed to have major back surgery, and I only had two weeks in the last two years with my parents. They’re both active and strong at the ripe ages of 77 and 88, but they needed help, and I needed more time.
Underneath the desire for more time with my parents, there’s also been a whispering curiosity for moving back to the States. It’s been quietly building for a few years now.
Where? I have no idea. I just feel called to be back.
My parents live in a peaceful area full of old, sweeping Carolina pine trees on the North and South Carolina border, ten minutes from the beach.
The surrounding area is full of “Jesus Save Me” billboards, gun shops, and tourist megastores full of Donald Trump paraphernalia. And a history I'm not familiar with.
To say I landed in a completely different world is an understatement.
By mid-July, it had been seven weeks of taking care of aging parents while bumping into little me at every turn.
I needed space.
I had a couple thousand points on my Home Exchange account that needed to be spent by the end of July. Mexico City, Miami, and Charleston were on my radar for over a month, and nothing was coming through, so the odds of finding a place last minute were slim to none.
But as fate always has it…a cute condo in Charleston had just been posted for three weeks starting the next day. Oddly enough (wink, wink), the owner is a single 40-something-year-old woman from Mexico City starting a new business. She booked a trip to CDMX to escape the temptations of summer at the beach to finish her website.
I live for these moments of serendipity.
RECONCILING THE SNOB
Charleston was the one city I could maybe see myself living in, as the old-world charm of Europe doesn’t leave one’s heart easily.
I don't have a car in a country where, other than NYC, people live in their cars. I'm used to walking, biking, or taking a train. One of many differences I'm reconciling between life in Europe and the US.
So Uber was the only option I could see for making the two-and-a-half-hour drive from my parents.
In research mode, my dad suggested I take the bus from Myrtle Beach. “It’s easy and only 20 bucks.”
My first response was, admittedly, one of being a total snob. A bus? From the rough side of Myrtle Beach? Definitely not.
My assumptions were rooted in an image I’ve carried since I was young about “what kind of people” go to Myrtle Beach.
I won’t sugarcoat it. Think: rednecks who need signs for where their firearms aren’t allowed.
Uncomfortable assumption to admit? Yes, but it was still there.
And, to be fair, Southerners often see Northerners as snobby, loud, “better than you,” tightly wound Yankees.
Judgment is rarely one-sided.
I also observed this in Europe. The north is thought to be educated and efficient, while the south is thought to be ignorant and backwards. One side believes the other is uncivilized. The other believes the first is insufferable.
We all hold judgments about “the other.” Whatever that may be for you. It’s only a matter of who wants to be honest about it.
I think of the song “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist” from the Broadway musical Avenue Q. Go have a listen.
The thing is, when you can’t own your truth out loud, even quietly to yourself, it owns you.
It covers itself in shame, guilt, fear, superiority, inferiority, defensiveness, and most of all, disconnection.
From yourself. And from other people. So I’ve found freedom in owning my shit.
At least then I can sit with it. Turn it around. Question it. Maybe laugh at it. And perhaps, transform it. Or just accept it with love and move on.
THE ONE YOU PICK
I like the challenge of getting over myself, so I booked the Greyhound bus from Myrtle Beach. 20 bucks versus 150 was convincing enough.
When we arrived at the Google Maps destination, my dad, in a shocked and confused voice, said, “thiiiiis is it?!”
It was an old-school bus depot that looked more abandoned than recognizable.
As we pulled up, I scanned inside the glass wall to see who was waiting. A motley crew of hungover men scattered across the benches. My nervous laughter took over as I absorbed how shady it all looked.
Still sitting in the car studying the guys waiting inside, I said to my dad, “This reminds me of the game that gives you a set of images, and you have to pick which one doesn’t fit. Yeah, I’m the one you pick.”
I’ve been to many questionable places around the world by myself, so I don’t scare easily, but in that moment I felt a pit of nerves bubble up in my stomach. I’m an easy target in these desolate, backwards-feeling bus depots.
For a fleeting moment, I considered skipping the bus and ordering an Uber, but instead I said a little prayer and decided I was safe. I simultaneously took off my gold jewelry and set my mind to be hypervigilantly brave.
My dad was waiting with me outside. He has a way of keeping things light and cool but is always tuned in. One guy came out in a black hoodie in peak summer heat. He smiled and sent a passing “how are you” to my dad as I went inside to ask about my luggage.
Like always, I came back out to my dad in a smiley conversation with the guy. Then another guy came out…a hippy shorter than me with long, wispy hair, appearing eager to connect. We exchanged travel stories as my dad prompted me to talk about places I’ve been.
We were all just traveling from one place to another. Luggage and baggage in tow.
One far from home, not sure where he belongs next. The other heading to his new home after visiting family. And I was both.
The “motley crew” turned out to be friendly souls waiting for another bus. Just humans open to having a conversation with a willing participant.
Just humans.
Just like me.
In the end, the big scary bus ended up feeling like that Disney ride playing the song “it’s a small world after all.”
I shared a Medjool date with the only other passenger and enjoyed magnificent views of towering green trees and meandering waterways.
By the time I arrived in Charleston, my assumptions were rewritten, and my heart was fuller.
What’s on the other side of fear is freedom.
What’s on the other side of judgment is love.
Sometimes getting over yourself is as simple as getting on the bus and letting it show you what it wants to show you.
